 | David Allen on Fishing for Answers |
| David Allen on Fishing for Answers |
 | Ray on Fishing for Answers |
 | Donald Gallus DPC US… on Fishing for Answers |
| David Allen on Smooth Operation |
MY NEW PEN
By David Allen
Is there a difference
between writing a poem
with a fountain pen
instead of a ballpoint?
Will the words
be more polished?
More elegant?
Or will I have to
shake it up more
to get the lines to flow?
The pen demanding
more ink, like opening a vein?
Is a ballpoint pen
simply more mundane?
If so, what about poems
born from platens
or electronic bytes?
Are they too mechanical?
Too removed from emotion?
I wonder as I write.
Words Gone
By David Allen
The words were gone.
The poet sulked at his desk,
staring at the blank computer screen.
His Muse stood beside him,
sobbing while she stroked his neck.
“I don’t know what’s happening,” she said.
“I want to help you, but the words won’t come.
This is more than a simple writer’s block.
It’s more like the words absconded with the images,
the ideas are idle, blurry concepts just beyond reach.
I have failed you.”
“Don’t say that,” the Poet said,
turning to face his Muse.
“It’s not your fault.”
“It is,” she said.
“There’s too much darkness.
Too many things are piling up.
The words are suffocating under
the heap of today’s failures
and tomorrow’s fears.
I’m just not good for you.”
She turned and ran from the room.
The Poet muttered a few “damns” under his breath.
He wondered awhile whether to follow her.
Should he scrap the play
or go on to Act 2?
After a painfully slow minute,
he shook his head, then rose and left the room.
He climbed the stairs to their bedroom.
She sat cross-legged on the bed,
a pen in her right hand and a notepad on her lap.
“Look, I’m so…” he started.
But she cut him off, looking up,
Sadness and defeat contorted her face.
“So, did you come upstairs
To edit my suicide note?” she asked.
He walked to her side and kissed her cheek.
“No, just checking to make sure
you have no knives or pills up here,” he said.
His Muse’s frown turned into a slight smile.
“I just wish I was better at this,” she said.
“You are,” the Poet said as he left the room.
A few minutes later, he was back at the computer
typing slowly as a poem formed on the screen.
Cover art by Jenny Kalahar
T‘aint Nothin’
By David Allen
“This writing’s not all
that hard,” he said,
peering over the poet’s shoulder.
“After all, you never
even learned
to type,
and look how
well you do.”
(But he never saw the callused pads
of my type-dancing shoes.)
Buy my latest book, “Type Dancing,” now available from Amazon
Daily News
By David Allen
No news today
I’m on vacation;
slept late,
no daily work routine,
no papers to read,
no e-mail to answer,
no radio, TV or
Internet news reports
to slog through.
I’m free.
Until the cell phone rings.
An editor from a thousand
miles away says something
big happened today,
can I drop the nothing
I am doing and log-on?
Make some phone calls?
Get some reaction,
find some local color,
something new to feed
the copy beast?
Can I crank out something
for the next news cycle?
Sure, I say, what the hell,
maybe nothing will happen
tomorrow.
My books are available on Amazon, both paperback and Kindle. If you want a signed copy, email me at david@davidallen.nu. Order your copy today! I am like most poets — poor.
Here’s my Amazon Author Page: https://www.amazon.com/David-Allen/e/B00DT6TM7Y?ref_=pe_1724030_132998060
HARVESTS
By David Allen
I’ve seen many harvests.
During my teen years, I harvested
baskets of Little Neck clams;
wading in harbor waters at low tide
on Long Island’s North Shore,
collecting treats to be steamed
at beach barbecues.
I stumbled across potato fields
as a child, collecting spuds days before
the migrant farmers were transported
to harvest the Long Island fields,
years before the farms gave way
to shopping malls and subdivisions.
Later, there were Virginia Autumns
breathing in the strong smells of tobacco
curing in barns, hung on beams and exposed
to smoke from hardwood fires.
In the Far East, I saw rice
reaped in rice paddies by
foot-powered threshing machines,
as I drove back mountain roads
to my day job harvesting news.
These days I witness Hoosier harvests of corn,
dodging huge reaping machines
that menace my car as I drive
down narrow country roads.
It’s also where I reaped a bountiful
crop of love when I married
a Hoosier farm girl who taught me
how to spot soybean fields,
deem when corn is ripe to pick,
and that John Deere’s are the only real
Tractors for true Hoosiers.
She also helped me raise
a wondrous crop of kids.
But me, I’m not a farmer.
I’m just a poet who plants
words on pages to feed
a poem-hungry world.
Be sure to buy my books “The Story So Far” and “(more)” both available on Amazon.
https://www.amazon.com/David-Allen/e/B00DT6TM7Y?ref_=pe_1724030_132998060
WHAT D’YA DO?
By David Allen
It was a great night
at the Eat Write Café.
About a dozen poets,
fueled by cold beer
and raw feelings that filled
the pages they clutched as they
climbed the stage steps,
shared their poems
with the Friday night crowd.
While they read, I paced fidgety
at the rear of the room, smiling
whenever the barmaid passed
with tray full of beer for the tables.
I had already read and I was like
a punch-drunk pug anxious
to get back in the ring.
Out of the corner of my eye
I saw a young man with a
severe Marine haircut
climb off a stool at the bar
and walk toward me with
a napkin in an outstretched hand.
“Hey, man, I just wrote this,” he shyly said,
handing me the ink-stained tissue.
“Think I can read?”
“Sure,” I said and read his poem.
It was short, about a dozen lines,
a wavy scrawl with some crossed-out words
about a lost love, left behind at some
Philippine back street shanty.
He slowly got up on stage
when the emcee, “The Mic,” asked
If anyone new wanted to share.
When the young Marine read,
there was a respectful silence.
The crowd clapped and roared
their approval when he smiled
and shyly left the stage.
Later, he bought me a beer,
thanking me for the chance to share.
“I sometimes write, but the guys in my squad
make fun of it,” he said. “They think it’s gay.”
“Screw ‘em,” I said. “No one understands poets.
We have to write like we have to breathe.”
We talked on, joined by other poets
downing mugs of inspiration.
They were Marines, Airmen,
Sailors and soldiers, civilian teachers,
contractors and older Americans who had made
Okinawa their home. Gathering
to share their addiction to the printed word.
They encouraged him to continue writing.
After a few more beers, the young poet
turned to me, saying he could tell by my beard
and graying, long hair that I was obviously
not a member of the military.
“What do you do?” he asked.
I smiled and drained my Guinness.
“Yeah,” I mused. “What d’ya do?”
Buy my books! The Story So Far and (more) are available at Amazon.com.
https://www.amazon.com/David-Allen/e/B00DT6TM7Y?ref_=pe_1724030_132998060
POEMS
By David Allen
Damn!
Now I’ve done it.
It’s Monday
The Last Stanzas meet Friday
And I have no new poem to wow them;
Nothing,
Nada,
Nil.
My brain is as foggy
As the damp December day
Outside my home.
There was a glimmer of hope last night
When I saw an orphan poem
Sitting sadly, lonely,
On my computer’s desktop.
Hundreds of other poems
Gathered in “done” folders.
One massive file contained poems
Published over forty-two years,
Another folder bulged with poems
Prepared for my next book.
But this one poem sat alone.
I opened it and read about
My latest spinal operation
And the nurses who guided
My recovery with caring hands.
There was Tara, who would make
My pain Gone With the Wind,
And Destiny, who said I’d be fine,
But wasn’t so sure about her future.
I smiled and exhaled a sigh of relief
“I don’t think I shared this one,” I said to Myself.
“Good, now go to bed,” he answered.
But in the morning I had doubts
And called the Last Stanza leader
Just to make sure the awesome poem
Had not been shared with the group.
“Send it to me,” she said.
“Aw, it’s upstairs and I’m sipping coffee
Huddled on the couch under a blanket,” I complained.
“It was about my nursing care after my operation.”
She remembered the poem. I read it to the group months ago.
“Just write a new one,” the poetess said.
We said our goodbyes
And I pouted and pulled
At my Holidazed mind
For just a few lines.
And now, this…
It’s a week before Christmas
And all through the house
I searched for a poem
But my inner voice groused.
“Hey buster, forget it
There’s no poem here
Your gift sack is empty
There is no good cheer.
“You’re being punished
You’ve been a bad guy
You laughed at deadlines
When you were a news scribe.
“Now, you’re paying for laying
For days on the couch
Binging on Christmas movies
You’ve been a real slouch.”
“Bah, humbug,” I muttered
“Hey, I have an idea.
I’m thinking of sleeping
Until the New Year.”
I then heard a rumble
Of yells in my head
“Scram!” Inner Voice yelled
“Screw you!” Ego said.
“David still has it,” Ego announced
“Just give him a chance.
He’ll soon find a theme
And the words will dance.”
So, I drained my coffee,
My fifth or sixth cup,
And told the two voices
To shut the hell up.
Then I reached for my pen
And this notebook I filled
With this new poem
I knew fit the bill.
Musings on Scott’s Departure
By David Allen
The poets are gathered again tonight
Jet-streams of thought are taking flight
Riding on rhythms of rhyming verse,
Sometimes free-form, some long, some terse.
Poems to soothe the savage beast
Or to assist in the beast’s release.
And there’s nothing more savage on a given night
Than poems by Scott – Sir Walter’s right
On target with tomes that suck you in
Like quicksand or a desert whirlwind.
Our sorrow tonight is in Scott’s departing
Just as most of us were starting
To see the sanity in his weavings,
Like seeing the pattern in a spider’s web.
(Getting past the horror of the spider’s leavings.)
“Oh, what a tangled web he weaves!”
But now, I confess, I once did deceive
When I told him he was good –
“But not that good!”
Now with his parting I have to say
How wrong I was that beer-filled day
Let me say it now and not be misunderstood –
He is that good! He is that good.
And he’ll be sorely missed.
Cabin Serendip, Okinawa
Aug. 6, 1999
The Young Writer
By David Allen
He was always jotting something down
in an old school notebook,
sitting on the front stoop
of his family’s apartment
while his friends ran by him
to play a game of stickball
in the housing project’s parking lot.
When older, the other teens,
who bragged of their JD cards,
stole cars for joy rides,
while he buried himself
in books by Henry Miller, Dos Passos,
Frost, Whitman, Ginsberg and Poe.
There was always something different about him.
Oh, he wasn’t some antisocial angelic dweeb.
He played war with sticks and mud clods
on the hill behind the Rec Center.
And he also shoplifted his share of candy
and trolled the backstreets and alleys
for soda bottles to deposit at the local deli.
The oldest of seven kids,
he chose early to disconnect from the family,
spending hours away from home exploring
abandoned houses, factory ruins,
drainage tunnels, and rail yards
where he learned to hop freights
But, unlike his friends, he wrote
about those adventures,
scribbling in long-lost notebooks,
paeans to the open road,
hitch-hiking across borders;
new rock ballads for lost loves;
observations in a new teen beat.
Sometimes, while delivering the daily
newspaper, he imagined his life
was a televised serial on some
alien planet and he’d looked up
at the sky and give the viewers the finger.
He knew they’d cut that scene,
but it made him smile.
Kerouac would like that gesture.
he thought, so would Miller.
Years later, while skating through
high school, he joined the Naval Reserves
and took destroyer cruises
to the Caribbean – the Tropic of Cancer,
while classmates stayed at home
and sang Noels under Christmas trees
and celebrated the rising of Christ.
He found his future in the Navy
when, at 18, on his two-year active
duty tour, he wrote about his ship
for his hometown paper
and was paid $35 for a full
tabloid page and a pic.
He caught the News Jones
and later spent nearly four decades
living as an outsider and getting paid for it,
while he scrawled poems and stories
that he was sure would also
be read one day.
The sailor, 1966
Like this? Then buy my books! “The Story So Far” and “(more)” are available on Amazon and by messaging me at david@davidallen.nu.
It’s in My Blood
By David Allen
Some 240 years ago
Several Allens fought
For American independence
From the British Royal Crown.
While great x-times
Cousin Ethan Allen
Led his Green Mountain Boys
In a revolutionary rampage,
The Allen clan on Long Island’s
North Shore kept Great Neck
A rebel island amidst
Tory King’s County.
One young Allen lad
Even signed up to beat the drum
For General Washington’s troops.
And was wounded
During the Battle of New York.
So, how’s this history feel
After all these generations?
Not so free,
Not so independent.
The Democracy the
Founding fathers fostered
Has become an oligarchy.
We’re ruled by the corporate elite,
The new royalty.
Maybe it’s time for a new …
Um, maybe tomorrow,
Tonight we’re binge watching
Game of Thrones.
| David Allen on Fishing for Answers |
| David Allen on Fishing for Answers |
| Ray on Fishing for Answers |
| Donald Gallus DPC US… on Fishing for Answers |
| David Allen on Smooth Operation |
Type Dancing 